"
she burned for two hours without changing, without swaying or kneeling---only glowing within, like a boiling fire glimpsed through silhouetted walls, like a hollow saint, like a flame-faced virgin gone to God, while i read by her light, kindled while rimbaud in paris burnt out his brain in a thousand poems, while night pooled wetly at my feet. "
~ annie dillard, death of a moth